“My dear Lord Cyril,—I was greatly interested to hear of the letter discovered among the papers that the poor commandant had intrusted to the Bishop for safekeeping during our little affair at Tatarjé. Merely as a matter of interest, may I ask you to put these two questions to your friend Drakovics. Ask him where is the letter addressed by him to the Bishop and the commandant jointly, and promising them an amnesty and future favour if they managed the King’s conversion? and who is to become Archbishop of Bellaviste when the Metropolitan joins the majority? The earlier inquiry, as you have no doubt noticed, concerns the beginning of the present business, the later one its end, which is not yet. You will guess that I would not likely write this to you if you would be able to make any unpleasant use of it; but since you cannot do that, I would like to relieve you from the humiliation of being dragged at Drakovics’s chariot-wheels any longer.—From your well-wisher,
“O’Malachy,
Colonel à la suite of the
—th Regiment of the Line.”
Cyril’s first impulse on reading this was to curse the O’Malachy aloud; but he restrained himself, and proceeded to tear the letter methodically into strips and burn it. The exercise relieved his mind, and he was able to look at things calmly again.
“It’s just like the old fool,” he thought, “imagining that he will set Drakovics and me by the ears. That he will not do, for his testimony would be of no value against Drakovics’s denial, and I don’t break with my friend the Premier until I can pulverise him. There shall be no minor explosions—at any rate on my side—to mar the effect of the great coup. I can smile and smile and be a villain as well as he can. He may have the laugh on his side at present, but the man laughs longest who laughs last. Oh yes; I trusted him once, but never again, my friend—never again!”
It was fortunate that Cyril’s soliloquy was uttered only in thought, and did not publish itself in words, for just as he had reached this point in his meditations M. Drakovics was announced. The Premier came in looking vexed and somewhat sullen; but it suited Cyril’s humour to welcome him with exaggerated cordiality.
“Come in, come in, my friend!” he cried. “Take this chair of mine. If there was a more comfortable one, you should have it, but we are not Sybarites here. To what happy chance do I owe the pleasure of beholding your bright and cheerful countenance?”
M. Drakovics frowned. “I came to tell you, Count, that her Majesty insists upon your having the Holy Icon. But doubtless this is no news to you?”
“Haven’t heard a word about it,” returned Cyril, with perfect truth. The Comradeship of the Holy Icon was the chief Thracian order of merit. It took its name from a band of heroes who had guarded a sacred picture of St Peter in the decisive battle which made Thracian independence possible in the days of Alexander the Patriot, and its membership was confined to those who had rendered signal service to the reigning dynasty. To be admitted to the brotherhood on the recommendation of his sovereign was a gratifying experience for any subject; but it seemed to Cyril that to him, at least, it might also be an embarrassing one. “Why should I have heard the news?” he asked.
“Why? when we all know the high esteem in which her Majesty is at present pleased to hold you? You are basking in the sunshine of royal favour just now, Count. I only hope for your sake that the brightness may last.”
“Well, whether the Holy Icon comes to me by favour or not, I won’t say that I think I haven’t deserved it,” said Cyril deliberately.